


Remembering, Trying to Forget

by kutubiyya



Series: Snapshots [9]
Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Angst, Bitchy exes are bitchy, M/M, Mutual Pining, sort of an AU in which Swanderson isn't a thing, yeah i went there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:22:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2651915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kutubiyya/pseuds/kutubiyya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jimmy and Pup are mean to each other, and Swanny announces his retirement from cricket – but not before trying to seal a certain deal on his way out.</p><p>Feedback very welcome!</p><p>(Rated M for a couple of the things Jimmy and Pup say to each other, just to be on the safe side for anyone who reads fic at work...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembering, Trying to Forget

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the _other_ 2013 Ashes: the first scene takes place after the first Test, the rest between the third and fourth Tests. Features Jimmy A/Michael Clarke hating on each other, because apparently this instalment wasn't already miserable enough ;)

If nothing else, reflects Jimmy, the sight of Michael Clarke heading towards him down a deserted corridor in the Gabba pavilion is definitive proof that no matter how bad things seem, they can always get worse.

Clarke: the victorious captain whose team just beat Jimmy’s by 381 runs in the opening Test of the new Ashes series. The batsman who made 113 off 130 balls in his second innings, an innings in which Jimmy failed to take any wickets. The guy who, this afternoon, escalated a ridiculous slanging match at the crease by telling Jimmy to _get ready for a broken fucking arm_.

Pretty much the last person Jimmy wants to see, for more reasons than just these.

Well, it’s too late to duck back out of the corridor now. He’d rather not have this confrontation, but there’s no way he’s going to let Clarke think he’s scared of it. He keeps walking.

He’s not proud of the exchange on the field this afternoon. With defeat – not just defeat, a hammering – staring the team in the face, he let his frustration get the better of him. It was a stupid mistake in (at least) two different ways. First, smiling George Bailey just might be the nicest Aussie he’s played against (and the man’s sledging wasn’t exactly hardcore, just some over-enthusiastic chirping from a late-starter Test debutant looking to prove himself). Second, it gave Clarke an excuse to step in. And Michael Clarke loves nothing more than to rile Jimmy.

He always has. Even back in the days when they were drunkenly ending up in each other’s beds on a regular basis, ten years ago or more, it always felt like they spent as much time fighting as they did fucking.

Jimmy was a shy young up-and-comer, then, the talk of the Lancashire club circuit; polite, self-effacing, naive. He’d been utterly mesmerised by the brash young Aussie playing in England for a typically soggy north-west summer. Clarke, for his part, always said that he thought Jimmy’s niceness was just a mask, and that he wanted to tear it off.

Well, if there’s one person Jimmy no longer feels any need to be nice to, it’s Clarke.

 _So I suppose you got your wish_ , he thinks, as they draw level with each other, and stop.

“Commiserations on the result today,” says the other man, with a smile. “But I guess the best team won.”

Jimmy shrugs. “Turns out Mitch can bowl all right when we’re off our game,” he says. He makes as if he’s about to walk on, then adds, “But congratulations on finding yourself an attack dog, Pup.” (Just the slightest stress on the nickname.) “You always did like them taller than you.”

(Yeah, he’s been planning that one. Just in case he did see Clarke again this evening. He might not be very proud of this side of himself, but it doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it, occasionally.)

“Ha.” Clarke’s face has lit up; sometimes Jimmy forgets how much the Aussie relishes this. “And who’re you bending over for these days, Jimmy? Still that smarmy spinner?”

(They bring out the worst in each other. They always have.)

Jimmy hears a door open behind him, then close again quickly; but there’s no sound of anyone coming down the corridor.

He gives Clarke a thin smile. “No, just good friends. You know, like you and…” He pretends to rack his brains. “No, wait… you don’t really have any friends, do you?”

Clarke takes a step closer. “Losing today really did sting, didn’t it?” His tone is sharper, now. “Which is strange, really: in the old days, you always liked it when I got the better of you. At least, to judge from some of the sounds you used to make.”

Jimmy’s breathing hard. Anger, and something else. _I was young and didn’t know any better_ , he thinks. “Fuck off,” is what he says out loud.

Clarke shakes his head in mock sadness. “Well, whoever you’re sleeping with, they’re not doing it for you. You’ve got a lot of pent-up aggression.”

Jimmy grits his teeth. “Why do you always have to be such a dick, Mike?”

Something in this – later, Jimmy will think that maybe it’s because he used his name – catches the other man off-guard. It’s a moment before Clarke answers, and when he does the sharpness is gone. “Because that’s what everyone expects.”

There’s no time to answer that, because the door behind Jimmy opens again, and this time a voice rings out: Ali’s.

“What’s going on here? Jimmy?”

Something twists in Jimmy’s gut. He really doesn’t want Ali to hear any of this.

And his face must be giving something away because Clarke suddenly laughs.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, “I get it now!” He looks the approaching Ali up and down in a way that makes Jimmy want to smack him, and adds, “Yeah, I would, too.”

“Dream on,” says Jimmy, in an undertone, keeping his focus on Clarke rather than looking round at Ali. “He’s got better taste.”

“Why don’t we find out?”

It’s all Jimmy can do not to shove him against the wall. “Leave him out of this.”

Clarke smirks, and moves past him; when Jimmy turns to look, Ali’s stopped a few feet away, and Clarke’s standing just that little bit too close to him.

“You need to keep your boy on a tighter leash,” he’s saying. “He’s going to get himself into trouble one day.”

(Jimmy’s face burns.)

Ali watches Clarke through narrowed eyes. “Shame there isn’t someone to keep you on a leash,” he says at last. “Then maybe you’d act more like a captain, and less like a thug.”

(Under different circumstances, Jimmy would cheer that reply.)

Clarke grins, in that spoiling-for-a-fight way he has. “So which of you—”

“Get out of here, Pup,” snaps Jimmy.

Remarkably, he does. “I’ll leave you blokes to console each other, or whatever it is you do when you’ve lost,” he says. “Have a good night.” He whistles his way up the corridor.

The sound of the door closing behind him is loud in the sudden silence. Jimmy stares at the floor.

Ali clears his throat, says briskly, “I probably don’t need to tell you this, but: steer clear of him. The umpires have reported him, we don’t need any more—” He stops. “Jimmy?” His hand brushes Jimmy’s shoulder, then settles there. His tone has changed. “Are you okay?”

Jimmy shrugs him off. “Fine,” he lies; and leaves.

\--

By the time they get to Melbourne, the tension in the England camp is like a ticking clock: once you notice it, you can’t _un_ -notice it. It’s a steady beat of tiny aggressions and smothered irritations, of gazes not met and pointed sighs ignored. It seems to get louder and louder the more they all sit and try to pretend it’s not there.

The Ashes are lost. And with them, everything.

There’s so much going wrong at once that Alastair’s utterly overwhelmed. And still he has to go in front of the press every day and talk about how they can turn this around, because the last thing anyone in that dressing room needs is for him to fan the flames of speculation and criticism and calls for everyone’s heads. The last thing they need to see is how dejected their captain is.

He can’t put it right. He can’t put any of it right.

Finny falling apart at the seams. Jimmy scraping for wickets, playing on with a broken rib. All the old tensions between KP and Flower, between KP and the others, bubbling back to the surface. Alastair’s own batting form patchy at best – a first-ball duck in the second innings of the previous Test, his hundredth – when he should be leading from the front.

Most painful of all, a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong, of everything they’ve lost: the sight of wry, reliable, hard-working Trotty, that calm presence at the centre of the dressing room, so ground down he can’t go on.

And now Swanny’s leaving them, too.

“…I’m sorry,” he’s saying. “I’m so sorry.”

It’s very close to being the last thing Alastair wants to hear just now.

They’re sitting on a pale green three-seater sofa in Alastair’s hotel room in Melbourne. Over the course of the conversation, Alastair’s gone from sprawled to scrunched up; at some point he’s tucked his legs underneath him, and the two-armed grip he has on the back of the sofa is, he realises now, alarmingly close to the pose of a man clinging on for dear life.

“But… body and mind, I’ve nothing left to give.”

Swanny’s slumped, head in his hands. He’s been talking for several minutes, in a pained, quiet monotone utterly unlike his usual voice.

“I told myself I could come here, I could at least hold down an end, I could contribute. But I’m just making it worse.”

Alastair wants to be angry. He is angry, but he wants to lash out with it. Over the past few weeks, he’s seen bats smashed into walls, kitbags hurled across rooms, doors dented, a bench kicked until it cracked; heard enough frustrated yelling and sideways insults and stunned silences to last him a lifetime.

Part of him wants to join in. There’s so much pressure, and he longs for an outlet. If he can’t solve this, he wants to explode, instead. He wants to wound.

Especially now.

“I know what this looks like. I wish…” Swanny’s shaking his head; his hands are bunched, white-knuckled, in his t-shirt, and he’s staring at the floor like his life depends on it. “I wish things were different. I can’t tell you how much I—”

He breaks off, swallows; doesn’t resume.

 _How could you?_ Alastair wants to say; to demand. _How could you walk out on us? What about pride? What about the team?_

But he can’t afford to lose control. Not in his position. Snarling his rage and grief at Swanny won’t change anything, and it certainly won’t make him feel better. And in the end, you can’t argue with elbows that won’t heal right, can you?

No matter how much you want to.

Alastair lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “Okay,” he says. His voice sounds strange to his ears; rough. “It’s…”

He waits a moment, not sure what he wants to say, not sure he trusts himself to speak. His throat feels tight with everything he’s holding in.

“I understand,” he says, and immediately some of the tension is released: from the room, from his chest.

Swanny relaxes, visibly; he looks up, at last, and Alastair sees that his eyes are red.

“I mean. I can’t pretend I’m happy, you know? After all these years…” Alastair swallows back his sadness. “I hate that it has to end like this. But I understand your reasons.”

They talk on for a while. Eventually, things become easier. Eventually, because this is Swanny, there’s a hug.

Which is when Alastair more or less does almost lose it; when it finally, properly, hits him. Swanny’s leaving. Actually leaving, and he won’t be back. His closest friend on the tour, the one guy he can talk to about anything.

Almost anything.

And on that thought, he knows that he has to ask: about the other, hidden casualty of this decision.

“What about…” Alastair draws back, but only a little way; he stays within the comforting orbit of Graeme’s arms. He gestures, helplessly, not sure how to say this. “You and Jimmy?”

“Yeah…” Swanny’s smile is sad. “I’ll miss the miserable git. The quest to make Jimmy laugh… it’s what gets me out of bed in the mornings.” He shrugs. “But we’ll still see each other every so often. And I’m not letting him get out of his promise to play massive amounts of golf with me when _he_ retires. No matter how many fashion shoots he’s doing.”

“But how… I mean…” This is trickier than Alastair thought it would be. He can feel himself going red as he says, “You’re still going to be… together, right?”

Swanny’s face goes through an amazing array of expressions in the space of about ten seconds: confusion, realisation, calculation, and something that looks, inexplicably, like glee.

“No…” he says, slowly. “We’re not— Despite all our messing about – we _are_ just messing about.” He shakes his head. “We’re not an item.”

Which is emphatically not the response Alastair was expecting. “But… I thought…”

“Nope, never. Honestly and truly. I adore Jimmy, but we’re purely platonic husbands.” Swanny snorts. “I’m very straight, apparently. According to Mr Anderson. Who considers himself a good judge of these things.”

He’s saying something else, but Alastair doesn’t hear. The world is shifting around him.

And Swanny’s watching him intently.

Alastair suddenly has a lot of different thoughts, colliding. He buries his face in Swanny’s shoulder. “Oh god, I’m so sorry! I was _convinced_ …”

“Nah – no need to apologise.” Swanny hugs him again. “But do you really think we’d have kept something like that from you?”

“I… no… I guess not.” Alastair sits up, rubs his palm over his the stubble on his chin, trying to hide the smile that’s fighting to break through now the embarrassment’s receding. Because there’s one particular conclusion staring him in the face, here. “Huh. I got _completely_ the wrong idea when Jimmy…”

His brain catches up with what he’s saying and he trails off, embarrassed all over again.

And he could swear, it really _is_ like Swanny’s ears have pricked up.

“When Jimmy what?”

_Bugger._

“Um.” Alastair bites his lip, looks down at the sofa. “He, er… We. Sort of kissed?” He can’t stop the last bit reflecting his uncertainty, and sounding like a question.

When he looks back up again, Swanny’s got his mouth wide open.

“Okay,” he says. “ _Okay_. Too many things. Er. First.” He takes a breath, says rapidly, “Oh thank goodness _at last_. Finally, we can _talk_ about this!” He throws himself back against the sofa cushions like he’s swooning. “You’ve no _idea_ how long I’ve been keeping the secret.”

“I…” There are a _lot_ of unanswered questions in all that. Alastair picks one; how could he resist a hook like this? “How long…?”

“Jimmy’ll kill me if I tell you,” says Graeme, “so ask him. Right. Second, and most important. He never told me you _kissed_! He _never_ told me! He just said he made a pass at you, and you weren’t interested. So so _so_...” He leans forward, clasping his hands together and resting his chin on them. His eyes are bright. “When? Where? What was it like? Details!”

There’s a bashful smile that seems to be taking over Alastair’s face. He looks down, his mouth working as he tries to decide what to say. “I… well. So I was quite drunk.”

Swanny waves that away. “Yeah, yeah. All stories worth telling start like that. What happened?”

(Jimmy in the lift: _You’re a witness. Much too risky to leave you wandering loose about the hotel._ )

Alastair runs his thumbnail along a seam on his trousers, trying to concentrate. “Do you remember that night in Nagpur last year? With Joe, and the souvenir stump?”

(Jimmy’s arch invitation: _The stump’s the hostage, not you. Unless you want to be._ )

“Yeah…” A pause, then Swanny laughs, loudly. “ _Yes_! God, it was in my room, wasn’t it?” When Alastair looks up, he’s got a delighted hand clapped to his mouth.

(Jimmy lying back on the bed: _Pretty sure I’m corrupting you right now._ Better not mention that bit.)

“Yeah.” Alastair draws in a breath. “Right before Joe came in. You… pretty much almost walked in on us.”

Swanny’s grinning madly and drumming his heels on the floor. “ _And_?”

(And the hotel room carpet. And a hand under his shirt: warm, firm; exploring. And a kiss that still steals his breath when he remembers it.)

“And what?”

“You can’t tell half a story!”

Alastair gives him a look. “On a scale of one to ten, how pissed off do you think Jimmy’d be…?”

“Well, I’m about to head back to the other side of the world, so I can escape his wrath.” Swanny expression changes, briefly, exposing the sadness under the joviality. “He’ll cope. If the result’s worth it.”

 _He’ll cope_. Jimmy’s words, that same night in Nagpur, about Swanny. Words Alastair had – not to put too fine a point on it – _comprehensively_ misunderstood. He feels less like smiling now.

“I…” He doesn’t know what to say. There’s too much to think about: new information; old assumptions proved wrong. “To cut a long story short—”

Swanny groans. “ _Booooring_.”

“Shut up. To cut a long story short, I freaked out because I thought you guys were a couple. I thought he was cheating on you. So, the next day, I told him…” Alastair squirms a bit at the memory. “Yeah.”

“No way,” says Swanny. He’s shaking his head, still grinning. “Well, I’m glad to know _something_ ended up happening on that tour, after all the effort I put in.”

Alastair blinks. “Wait, the effort _you_ put in?”

“I lost _count_ of the number of times I took a really extended loo break, or ducked out to make a phonecall, or ‘remembered’ I’d left something downstairs, or whatever. All so I could leave you two alone.”

Alastair blurts out a helpless laugh. “No! _Really_?”

“I kept going to Matty’s room, until he stopped answering the door to me. I rang my wife so often she was starting to get worried. One time she said to me: _Have you and Jimmy fallen out or something? Don’t you have any other friends?_ ”

By the time he’s finished, Alastair’s laughing so hard he has to wipe his eyes. And he’s feeling… not better, exactly, but certainly a little bit lighter. Although that reflection takes him back to why they’re having this conversation in the first place.

“Don’t go, Swanny,” he says, abruptly, and he knows he sounds like a child, pleading for something impossible; can’t help it. “What am I going to do without you?”

“Snog Jimmy, I hope. I’d much prefer you did that without me, actually.”

“I mean it, Graeme.”

“So do I!” The other man sobers, looks away. “Humour’s how I deal with stuff. You know me well enough to know that. I’m made of teasing and emotional teflon.” He pats the back of the sofa with sharp, rapid movements. “Look, the next few days are going to be shit. Let me have some fun with this.”

 _The next few days are going to be shit for all of us_ , Alastair thinks, but doesn’t say. _And for the rest of us, probably the next month, at least._ He suppresses that, too. He just nods.

“Do you want me to say something to him?”

“No,” says Alastair, quickly. “We’ve got bigger things… Now’s not the time. And I should do it myself, anyway.” There’s damage to repair, there, and other things to think about, first. “For all I know he’s forgotten the whole thing.”

“I doubt it. Trust me, Jimmy’s not a fickle man.” Swanny smiles. “You’re going to have to make the first move, though. Seriously. He’s utterly convinced you’re not interested. And he’s got this whole noble Can’t Add To His Burdens thing.”

Alastair’s burdens. Like Swanny leaving?

There’s a slightly awkward silence. The conversation about Jimmy has been a welcome distraction, but it was only a distraction; and now the ease has gone, Alastair can’t bring it back.

Swanny gets to his feet. “Well, time to go and break the news to Jimmy,” he says, and there’s another flicker of vulnerability, another glimpse beneath the armour. Then his tone’s changing again as he adds, “About my retirement, I mean, not that you want to sleep with him.”

Alastair smiles, but it’s reflexive; dutiful. Swanny waits a moment, then walks to the door.

Once there, he hesitates.

“Do you forgive me?” he says, quietly.

Alastair closes his eyes. God, but this is hard. Why is it so hard?

“I will,” he says, and that’ll have to do, for now.

\--

The security guard smirks a little when he lets Jimmy in to the MCG that evening, but he doesn’t say anything, and for that Jimmy’s grateful. He’s really not in the mood for banter.

He’s here to get away: from what Swanny’s just told him; from everyone who doesn’t know what Swanny’s just told him and won’t, officially, until tomorrow; from the gossip that’s probably already flying. He isn’t ready to be badgered about what he thinks about Swanny leaving.

He doesn’t really know himself what he thinks, yet. Doesn’t want to think at all.

There’s barely anyone around inside the MCG; just a few of the groundstaff, putting equipment away before heading home for the night. He works his way past empty hospitality suites and darkened offices and shuttered bars, along tunnels and a staircase, to the side of the pitch. The grass has just been watered, and this close, the warm air’s thick with moisture. He doesn’t step on the turf, just stands there and takes it all in: the massive stands looming over him like tower blocks, the expanse of the outfield (greying into shadow now the sun’s sunk out of view), the distant scoreboard blank, awaiting its big moment.

Somehow he always forgets how big this place is; or maybe his imagination just won’t quite stretch to it, when he’s not here, like he doesn’t quite believe it can be real. Everything about the MCG just seems to operate on a bigger scale than any other cricket ground.

Memories of three years ago wash over him, whichever way he looks. The ghosts of his teammates in happier times: the video diary footage of Swanny climbing to the top of that stand over there; Trotty smiling, leaving the field on 168 not out; Bres bowling Ponting (very satisfying); KP setting himself to take that catch in the deep, off Swanny, to get rid of Siddle. The final wicket falling.

All of them, united and overjoyed, sprinkler dancing their victory in front of the delirious England fans. Swanny standing at the front of them, leading the celebrations. Good memories.

(Used to be good memories. Bittersweet, now.)

Jimmy heads for the opposition dressing room, their dressing room, even though he knows there are plenty of ghosts lurking there, too. But he feels a need to be out of sight, to be cocooned somewhere, just for a while.

He’s some way off his goal, down the corridor, when he spots that the dressing room door’s part open, that there’s light spilling out of the gap. Realises he’s not the only one who’s sought refuge here, tonight. Is pretty sure he knows who the other will be.

Stops. Thinks about turning back. (Pretends to think about it.) Continues on, quieter now. Stops again, in the doorway, because he has enough of a view of the room.

It’s Ali, of course.

His posture’s all wrong in ways Jimmy struggles to put into words – coiled, hunched, inward – but it’s Ali. The other man’s got one foot up on the bench, is using the raised knee to support crossed forearms, on which, in turn, his forehead rests. He doesn’t look up, shows no sign he’s even heard Jimmy approach.

Jimmy lingers on the threshold: knowing he should leave Ali in peace; reluctant to desert him. For a long moment he gives in to the uncertainty, planting a hand in his pocket and the other arm, bent at the elbow, high on the doorframe, above his head. He leans into the frame, resting his temple against it. Watching (keeping watch?), but not interfering.

He remembers joy, three years ago. He remembers a party in this room, laughter and beer and raucous noise: Swanny commandeering the iPod, Broady dragging Finny up to dance, everyone getting their moment with the replica Ashes urn.

He remembers drinking a little too much, getting a little too close; almost giving himself away, almost kissing Ali, almost persuading himself that the other man wanted it, too.

He’s gone further, since, of course; has learned for sure that Ali didn’t want it. (Or maybe not: _I enjoyed it_ , he said, over the English summer just gone. The more Jimmy thinks about that, the less idea he has about what it meant.)

Jimmy can hear the other man’s breathing: uneven, weighed down, like a succession of sighs. There’s a small but fierce part of him that wishes it were him having to retire, not Swanny. Swanny’d know exactly what to say; he’d have Ali laughing, or smiling at least, inside a minute. He wouldn’t just be watching, helplessly, unhelpfully. Wouldn’t be dwelling, selfishly, on his own thwarted desire.

On that thought, he turns to leave.

“Don’t go, Jimmy.”

Jimmy freezes. Ali hasn’t moved, and he still hasn’t looked up.

Jimmy lets go of a held breath, says, “How did you know it was me?”

“Anyone else would have said something. You’re okay with silence.”

He has to smile a bit at that. “That’s a fancy way to say I was dithering in the doorway.”

Ali looks up, propping his chin where his forehead just was. His eyes are glassy, his voice so drained as he says, “Take the compliment, Jimmy.”

Jimmy isn’t sure how to answer that; isn’t sure what he wants to do. For all that Ali’s asked him to stay, maybe this isn’t a good idea. But he’s caught, now. He lowers himself to the bench, a few feet from the other man.

(From this angle, he can see the place where he posed for photos with Ali and Swanny and the urn. He glances at it, once, then stares at the floor instead.)

For a length of time he doesn’t count, they both just sit, side by side: remembering, trying to forget.

Gradually, Ali shifts; he lets go of his knee, lowers the foot to the floor, leans back against the wall. More relaxed, or just working harder to conceal what he’s feeling?

“It’s going to get worse before it gets better, isn’t it?” Jimmy says at last.

Ali sighs. “Yes.”

Silence again, and then Jimmy feels the other man’s gaze on him.

“You okay?” Ali says.

(Jimmy almost says _fine_ ; his answer to everything. Stops himself.)

“Not really. You?”

When he glances across, Ali gives him a fleeting smile, then looks away.

“I will be,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Inspiration for the Jimmy/Pup backstory comes from [here](http://leatheronwillow.tumblr.com/post/93306754785/really-pup-because-jimmy-wrote-extensively-by).
> 
> 2) By strange coincidence, cricinfo also posted [some fic about Michael Clarke](http://www.espncricinfo.com/blogs/content/story/797235.html) this week that made reference to the 'broken fucking arm' remark.


End file.
